


this could almost kill me

by tinyinkstainedbird



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyinkstainedbird/pseuds/tinyinkstainedbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's wrong with Ian, but no one's dealing with it. Except for Mickey Milkovich.</p>
<p>Takes place towards the end of season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this could almost kill me

            "Debs, did you borrow my black top without asking?" Fiona's voice calls out above the ruckus downstairs in the kitchen, followed by the dryer door slamming.

            "No! Why do you always accuse me of everything?"

            Lip's voice tries to climb over his sisters' bickering. "Who wants peanut butter and banana sandwiches?"

            Mickey fucking does; that's who. It's impossible to get any goddamn sleep in this house anyway. He kicks off his blanket and stands slowly, his bones creaking and cracking from sleeping on the floor for three nights in a row.

            Ian's bed is empty. Not that he notices.

            He plods down the narrow staircase in his boxers, wondering how none of the dumbass Gallagher kids had never broken their fucking necks on them. He braces himself for the commotion coming from the kitchen.

            "Debs! The one with the sequins!"

            "I wouldn't be caught dead in sequins!"

            "What's wrong with sequins?"

            "Sequins are for sluts."

            "Says the girl wearing fifty-six pounds of electric blue eyeshadow," Carl mutters, and Mickey enters the kitchen just in time to see Debbie punch her younger brother in the shoulder.

            "Thumb out," Mickey tells her, ignoring their eyes as they all turn to look at him. He knows they don't like him, and they can go fuck themselves. He's not here for them.

            "What?" Debbie asks, her scowl softening because she's shy, but not going away entirely because she's old enough to know how her siblings feel about Mickey Milkovich.

            "When you throw a punch you can't tuck your thumb in your fist or you're gonna fuckin break it," Mickey snaps like she's an idiot, returning the scowl, not really meaning to. He picks up a carton of orange juice on the counter and drinks from it, relishing in their looks of disgust. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thumb out."

            While Debbie studies her hands and practices making a fist the right way, Lip gives him a bright, sarcastic smile. "Hey, thanks for teaching my little sister how to be a thug, Mickey."

            "Yeah, well, I taught my little sister how to take care of herself and she could kick your preppy ass all the way back to college, douchebag," Mickey tells him as he tucks the newspaper under his arm and carries it to the table, where he sits down next to Carl. "Kid doesn't have a fucking chance with Gallaghers teaching her how to fight."

            Lip's about to argue, but Fiona quiets him with a look. Mickey's not sure if that's because she wants Lip to be the bigger man, or because she knows Debbie really does need to learn how to take care of herself. Either way, Lip lets it go, silently spreading peanut butter over bread.

            "Can you teach me how to fight?" Carl asks rabidly.

            Mickey raises an eyebrow at the kid.

            "Have you ever curb stomped anyone?"

            "Eat your breakfast, Carl," Fiona tells him, balancing Liam on her hip as she digs through the laundry basket for her shirt.

            The backdoor bursts open and Ian crashes into the kitchen, cheeks pink and eyes burning. Mickey hates himself for looking up; hates himself even more for smiling. Ian walking into a room shouldn't feel like home.

            "Did somebody say breakfast?" Ian asks, too shrill, too cheerful, too alive. Manic. Everybody knows it, but nobody does a fucking thing about it. He snags a piece of toast from the stack in the middle of the table and shoves half of it in his mouth, yammering on about this idea for a new iPhone app he'd had on his 10 mile run this morning.

            Fiona and Mickey can't look at each other. They both know why.

            +

            Mickey doesn’t like to follow Ian around. He doesn’t need the Gallaghers thinking he’s some kind of pet, some lapdog that goes where Ian goes and sleeps on the floor because he’s been trained not to sleep on the bed, who stands guard and licks his feet and comes when he’s told to. So when Ian retreats up to his room after eating two bites of breakfast, Mickey flops down on the couch in the living room by himself.

            Debbie and Carl leave for school and Lip climbs the stairs two at a time. He has class in two hours, but he has time for this.

            This will always be his room. Those are his posters; his paperbacks. That’s the hole he kicked in the wall and the burn mark in the carpet from when he fell asleep studying and dropped his cigarette. That top bunk is where he had his first kiss and his first blow job (not in that order). He’d spent the first 18 years of his life in this room, but he knocks on the door and stands in the frame while he waits to be invited in.

            Ian looks up from his bed with a smile on his face. “Hey!”

            “Hey,” Lip says. “Can I come in?”

            “Yeah, of course!” Ian replies. He’s surrounded by papers, as he usually is now. “Hey, I was thinking, maybe me and you could take Debs and Carl skating today!”

            “They just left for school,” Lip tells him carefully. “And I have class in a couple of hours.”

            “Oh man,” Ian laughs. “I thought it was Saturday today.”

            “It’s Tuesday,” he murmurs.

            “What an idiot, right?” Ian grins and shakes his head, eyes begging Lip to laugh with him. “I guess working the late shift has kinda fucked up my inner clock.”

            “Yeah,” Lip says, sitting down on the bottom bunk so they’re close but not close enough that Ian feels caged in. It’s been hard to get Ian to stay in one spot for too long lately. “Put any more thought into going back to school?”

            “Wanna hear my idea for this new app?”

            “I was listening to you in the kitchen, Ian,” Lip tells him gently. “It sounds like a really good idea.”

            “Thanks!” he says happily. “I thought of some more features though; get this—”

            “You know what would help you get all these awesome ideas up and running?” Lip asks. “A high school diploma.”

            “Do you know where my skates are?” Ian asks, abruptly setting his notebook aside and scooting to the edge of the bed.

            Lip watches him. He’s scared but he doesn’t know what the fuck to say or do to make this better. “You gonna ask Mickey to go skating with you?”

            “Nah, he has to work.”

            “Right.” Lip nods. “So he’s been here for a few days, hey?”

            “Yeah, I guess,” Ian mutters distractedly as he shoves loose papers into his notebook. A page falls to the ground. “He has stuff going on at home.”

            “You mean like his wife and kid?”

            “More to it than that,” Ian says, dropping to his knees and looking under his bed. “I can’t even remember the last time I went skating! I’m pretty sure it was that one time with Monica when Carl was Liam’s age.”

            “Your skates probably won’t fit anymore,” Lip murmurs sadly. “You’ve grown a lot since then.”

            “You’re right!” Ian exclaims, slapping his knee and scrambling back to his feet. “I’ll just rent some down at the rink!”

            “Ian, are you—” Lip stops himself. He picks up the fallen piece of paper and looks at it. “This doesn’t even look like your writing.”

            “I was writing really fast,” Ian explains, taking the paper from his brother’s hand. “Just trying to get it all out before I lost it, you know? Anyway, you sure you don’t to come with me?”

            “I have class,” he reminds him.

            "Skip it! Isn't that what college is for?"

            "I can't fuck up my scholarship, Ian," he says. “But we should hang out soon, okay? Just you and me?”

            “Yeah, sure, sounds great!” Ian chirps. “See you later!”

            Lip’s left alone in the room they used to share. He hangs his head and runs his hands through his hair. “Christ.”

            +

            “You’re still here?” Debbie demands by way of greeting when she gets home from school that day.

            "Yeah, fuck you too," Mickey replies, not above saying fuck you to a thirteen-year-old girl, especially not after a shitty day at the Alibi, dealing with whores and blackmail and a measly 30%. He puts oven mitts on and lowers the door, feeling the heat on his bare arms.

            "You're... making dinner?"

            "So?"

            Debbie dumps her backpack on the table and leans against the counter, watching as Mickey pulls out a cookie sheet covered in pizza rolls. "Are you like our maid now?"

            "Why don't you go tell your brother his goddamn food's ready," Mickey snaps at her, dropping the pan on top of the stove and taking the oven mitts off. He searches through the drawers for a spatula. He catches a glimpse of her still standing there, and turns away again, not liking the way she's studying him. "Can I fucking help you?"

            Debbie doesn't flinch. Profanity doesn't bother her. Neither does Mickey's constant, transparent annoyance. "Did you really teach Mandy how to fight?"

            Mickey's eyebrows furrow, caught off guard. He was busy putting up walls around Ian; he wasn't ready to talk about the only other person he gave a fuck about. He shrugs. "Someone had to."

            "I like Mandy." 

            "Congratulations."

            "She's a lot nicer than you."

            Mickey gives her a _what the fuck_ look, complete with ultra-sassy eyebrows. "Don't you have some dolls to play with or some shit?"

            "No," Debbie says. "This is my kitchen you're making pizza rolls in."

            "All right; if I share them with you, will you leave me alone?"

            "I mean, you could give it a try."

            Mickey rolls his eyes. He grew up with older brothers that beat the shit out of him and their tomboy little sister, and they'd become scrappy and mean as a result. He doesn't know how to talk to this freckly kid with the kind, imploring eyes. "Get yourself a plate, then. I'm not serving you."

            "Like you and Ian do, you mean?"

            "Uh, how about you go eat a dick."

             Debbie grins as she comes around the counter and stands on her tip toes to pull a plate down from the cupboard. She's not tall enough, so she moves to climb up on the countertop, but before she can, Mickey grabs a plate for her. Deb's grin grows. She scoops some pizza rolls onto her plate while Mickey takes down two more plates and two glasses.

            She looks at him. "Can I ask you something?"

            "For fuck's sake."

            "There's this guy."

            "Nope," Mickey blurts, hands up as he storms past her and stands at the bottom of the stairs. " _Goddammit._ IAN!"

            "Nobody talks to anybody around here anymore," she tells him.

            "What the fuck are you talking about?" Mickey snaps. "You guys are always making with the touchy feely bullshit."

            "Not anymore," she says, and he turns back when he hears how sad she sounds. "Everyone's gone psycho. Lip's busy trying to keep everyone together while Fiona's being crazy; Ian's never home and when he is he acts like he's on drugs or something; Carl has a girlfriend -- who I'm pretty sure is a felon? There's always something, but no one talks about it."

            Mickey glances at her. "This guy giving you a hard time?"

            "No," she sighs forlornly. "He's not giving me _any_ time."

            "Then move the fuck on," he snaps, lip curling as he shakes his head.

            " _Ugh,_ it's not that easy."

            "Well, what, you want me and Ian to fuck him up a little?"

            Debbie smiles. "You don't have to do that but I really appreciate the offer."

            Carl stampedes down the stairs. "See you later, bitches."

            "Where you going?" Debbie asks.

            "Bonnie's picking me up."

            Mickey balks. "Aren't you like nine?"

            "Nine inches deep in your mom," Carl replies, and Mickey frowns because the little asshole almost makes him laugh. "Ian isn't home, by the way."

            "What the fuck?" Mickey snaps. "I just heard him stomping around upstairs."

            "He left as soon as I got home," Carl says. "I think he went for a run."

            "Again?"

            "Does he need your permission to leave?" Carl asks. "Shit, do we all need your permission to leave? Can I go out and play, Mickey?"

            "Ahh, go get herpes, you little shit," he grumbles, glaring as Carl runs out the back door with his middle finger in the air.

            "You can come watch Yo Gabba Gabba with me and Liam if you want," Debbie offers.

            "Or I could not do that fucking ever," Mickey replies, taking his share of pizza rolls and leaving the other half to sit on the stove.

            Debbies takes her pizza rolls and leaves him to coo at Liam in the living room, asking him how his day was even though the kid doesn't talk. The TV turns on and the house fills with stupid fucking songs and laughter from everywhere. 

            Mickey sits at the kitchen table alone, where he lights a cigarette and realizes he doesn't know what the fuck to do with himself when he's not hurting someone. That's when the lights go out.

            +

            Close to midnight, Ian comes home to a pitch black house and he trips over one of Liam's toys on his way up the stairs. He hears Fiona crying when he passes her room, so he knocks on her door and whispers her name.

            It takes her a minute to answer the door, and when she does, he can see her broken smile in the moonlight. "Hey," she breathes, pushing her hair back and trying to look like she's okay. "Not working tonight?"

            "My night off," he replies. "What's wrong?"

            "Nothing," she laughs softly.

            "Why don't the lights work?"

            "Missed the electric bill."

            "Seriously?" he asks, peering at her in concern. "Why didn't you tell me money's so tight? I could have picked up some extra shifts."

            She waves a hand. "I just -- I just missed it. Stupid, right? I'll put a cheque in the mail first thing tomorrow."

            "Any luck finding a job today?"

            "Things are looking up," she assures him with a smile and a nod. She touches his arm. "There might be an extra flashlight in the closet you can use. Are you hungry? Have you eaten?"

            "Yeah, I'm good, Fiona," he promises. "Get some rest, okay?"

            "Okay," she says. "Sorry you have to spend your night off in the dark."

            "I have candles."

            She looks at him gently as best she can with only the winter moon for light. "Mickey's still here."

            "Yeah, I told him he could crash here."

            "You got something to tell me?"

            "What do you want to hear?"

            "Probably not what you're going to tell me."

            "Then I won't tell you anything," he tells her with a smirk. "Night, Fiona."

            "Come here," she says, and wraps him up in a hug. He's so hard to keep still these days, but he hugs just as tight as he always has. He's always hugged like he knows exactly how you need someone to hold you. "I hope you're okay."

            "I hope you are too," he says, and lets go. "We'll figure something out. Go to sleep."

            She squeezes his hand before he walks away. It makes him sad to leave her alone, when he knows she's just going to crawl back into bed and cry, but he tip toes down the hall to his room. Lately, he's been feeling things too strongly -- he'll see a woman in a business suit on her way to work and will be overcome with this extraordinary sadness that comes out of fucking nowhere. Or he'll see a man smile down at his dog as they walk down the street and he'll need to stop and smile too and he'll want to call someone and tell them about it and sometimes he does but he thinks maybe people are tired of him calling now so he's started keeping it to himself. It gets tiring, feeling so much all the time, but he's sure it's okay. It can't be a bad thing to feel.

            Except for when it's a horrible thing. If his heart breaks, he doesn't know what's going to come spilling out.

            And that's why when he walks into his room and sees Mickey lying on the floor, flashlight aimed at the ceiling, cigarette smoke dancing in the beam, Ian says hey and nothing more. There's too much going on in his head after hearing Fiona cry and seeing her smile, and he can't deal with Mickey right now.

            "Where the fuck were you all day?" Mickey asks.

            "Out," Ian replies, crawling into bed and willing him not to show any more concern.

            "Your power got turned off."

            "Yeah, I noticed."

            "You guys hurting for money that bad?"

            "I didn't think we were," Ian tells him. "But I think Fiona's having a hard time finding a job."

            "I could get her a job."

            "Not funny, Mick."

            "Why not? She's already fucked," Mickey says. "Might as well get paid for it."

            "She's my fucking sister, you asshole," Ian snaps. "You can talk about yours however you want, but you don't get to sleep under this roof and talk shit about mine. Ever. Understand?"

            "Yeah, fuck," Mickey snaps back. "Didn't realize you were on your period today."

            "I'm sleeping downstairs."

            "Holy shit," Mickey barks, sitting up. "What the fuck's up with you?"

            "Nothing."

            "You know, your sister's right."

            "Fiona? About what?"

            "Not her, the little ginger one."

            Ian pauses, bristling with annoyance, but only because he so badly wants Mickey to be a part of his life and, yes, even his fucking family, and he can't even say their names. He can't even say _Ian's_ name half the fucking time. They're all just Gallaghers to him, all of them, even him, like this is still just a turf war between their last names, and Ian's heart is nothing but a casualty. He sighs and says slowly, " _Debbie_."

            "Yeah, that one," Mickey says. "She said you guys don't talk to each other. No wonder you're all so fucked up. You've got a house full of retards who all actually give a shit about each other but no one says a fucking word to prove it."

            "That's--"

            "Do you wanna fucking talk about it or what?" Mickey snaps.

            Ian lies there in the dark, facedown in his pillow, trying to fight off the feelings racing through him that are turning his entire body into nerve endings and bruises. He loves him so much.

            Finally, he asks, "Talk about what?"

            "Fuck off," Mickey says. "Why don't you go for another run, huh?"

            Ian takes a deep breath. There's too much to say. He doesn't know where to start. The wedding? The army? The hands of old men and the candy they put on his tongue to keep him from feeling anything? He can't talk about any of that shit, because that would make them matter, and Ian's very fucking survival relies on none of it meaning a damn thing.

            "Where's Carl?" he asks.

            "Out with his felon girlfriend."

            "Carl has a girlfriend?"

            "Maybe you should try coming home sometimes."

            Ian forms a fist and rests his mouth on it. He can't listen to Mickey say the word _home_ like it's something they share. "Is he coming home tonight?"

            "How the fuck should I know?"

            "Got a lighter?"

            "My pants."

            "Where are your pants?"

            "Wherever the fuck I took them off, I don't know," Mickey snaps, but feels around on the floor for them. He finds them and fishes the lighter out of the back pocket, tossing it up to Ian on the bed.

            Ian somehow manages to catch it even though it's almost completely dark in the room. "Shine the light at the dresser for me?" he asks softly, standing and crossing the room, following the beam of light to the dresser. He digs around in the top drawer and finds the candle he was looking for. He lights in, and the flickering flame bathes the room in a burnt orange glow. It makes it hard for them to look at each other.

            "Now what?" Mickey snaps.

            Ian sits down on his bed again. His smile comes out sadly, and when Mickey can't look at him, he glances down and sees Ian's hand resting on the bed beside him, a silent invitation.

            Not fighting it because he doesn't fucking want to anymore, Mickey climbs up onto the bed and sits next to Ian. He sticks a cigarette between his lips and Ian lights it for him. They share it without speaking.

            Ian flicks the cigarette out the window when they're done, and they sit shoulder-to-shoulder. "What did you do today?"

            Mickey shrugs. "Worked. Made pizza rolls. Ate them. Then the power went out and there's not a lot else to do when the power goes out besides jerk off."

            Ian laughs. "Hope you at least one of your own socks."

            "Hard to tell the difference."

            Ian's smile fades. "Did you see Svetlana?"

            "Considering she's there every time I fucking turn around, yeah, I saw her."

            "She give you a hard time again?"

            "Don't worry about it."

            "I don't care what she says to you; you can stay here for as long as you want."

            "It's not her I'm worried about," he chuckles.

            "Yeah, I know, and your dad has an awful lot of Gallaghers to go through before we let him put a hand on you, all right?"

            "Don't be a fag," Mickey mutters, in that way Ian can always see right through. "I can take care of myself."

            "Yeah, I know you can, Mick."

            Mickey finally looks at him. "Sometimes you're you again."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Half the time you won't shut the fuck up and then the other half of the time it's like talking to a fucking brick wall," Mickey says. "But sometimes you're not so bad."

            Ian purses his lips together. "Oh."

            "I'm only gonna ask this once, all right?" Mickey snaps. "And it's probably the fucking gay-ass candle light that's making me do it, so fuck you for that."

            "Okay," Ian laughs.

            “The wedding, did it—” Mickey runs a hand through his hair. “Is it my fault?”

            “Is what your fault?”

            Mickey levels him with an impatient glare.

            Ian looks down at his hands, and then at the tattoos on Mickey’s fingers. He’s the one person that Mickey can’t bullshit, and sometimes he thinks maybe if things were different, Mickey could be that one person for him too.

            But things aren’t different. It wasn’t just the wedding; it was the way Mickey had kissed him before he walked down the aisle. It was the look in his eyes when Ian told him he was leaving, and how he hadn’t moved an inch. Ian doesn’t mean to blame Mickey for everything that happened when he went away, but he can’t help it, because he’s the reason he had to go away in the first place.

            But there are nights like tonight when he looks at Mickey and Mickey looks back like Ian doesn’t have to tell him a goddamn thing because he’s already sorry. And nights like this when Ian feels too much are the nights when he wants to tell Mickey that it’s not his fault. That he didn’t do a damn thing wrong; that he’s done what he had to survive, and Ian understands.

            So tonight he doesn’t answer. He slips a hand under the elastic waistband of Mickey’s boxers, moving closer when Mickey slaps his hand away.

            “Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey snaps. “That’s how you answer a fucking question?”

            “Since when would you rather talk than fuck?”

            “Since we’re friends and you started scaring the shit out of me.”

            “I don’t—” Ian shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I can’t talk about this shit with you.”

            “What the fuck’s wrong with me?” Mickey demands. “You see anyone else breaking down your door to ask how the fuck you’re doing?”

            “They’re busy—”

            “Would you please fucking give a shit about yourself for once? Holy fuck,” Mickey snaps, and he has to drag a hand over his face to hide what is no doubt written all over it. “I can’t be the only one who does.”

            “You do?”

            “ _Give a shit about you_?” Mickey demands. “Seriously?”

            “I don’t know—”

            “Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, hand going to the back of Ian’s head and dragging him near before he kisses him. It’s not romantic, it’s not soft and sweet, it’s not rough or aggressive; it’s just to say _I’m here and I’m not fucking leaving._

Ian’s kiss feels like _thank you_. 

            They have the room to themselves all night, but when their kiss ends, Mickey tells him to go the fuck to sleep. Ian grabs his arm when he tries to return to the floor. “Don’t,” he says, and they both know what that word means, so Mickey stays.

            He curls up on his side and Ian curls his body around him, draping an arm over his shoulder and holding him close, and Mickey lets him because he knows it makes Ian feel better. It makes him feel better too, but that’s beside the point.

            +

            Ian’s gone when the bedroom door bursts open and Mickey startles awake. He sits up, breathing hard and disoriented, and forgets where he is for a second. He looks around the room and sees Carl climbing into bed.

            “You’re just getting home now?” Mickey demands, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What the fuck were you doing?”

            “Falling in love,” Carl sighs, burrowing under his covers and immediately falling asleep.

            Mickey shakes his head and decides to get up. The morning mayhem hasn’t begun yet, and he thinks maybe he can make the coffee before Ian does. He always makes it too goddamn strong. He puts his jeans on and staggers out of the room, sleepy but refreshed, his body not sore like it usually is, and pads down the hall.

            He passes Fiona’s room. The door is open a crack and he can see her sitting on her bed with her head in her hands. She’s a colossal fuck up, but she’s someone’s sister, so Mickey sighs and knocks.

            On top of looking like shit, she looks confused when she sees it’s him at the door. “Yeah?”

            “Stubbed my toe in the dark last night,” he snaps.

            “Uh… am I supposed to care?”

            He shoves a handful of bills at her. “Someone’s gonna break their goddamn neck on those stairs if you don’t get the power turned back on.”

            She blinks at him, big brown eyes exhausted and defeated, and softens slightly. “Mickey, no—”

            “I know you’re busy giving coke to babies and going to jail and everything, but you should talk to your damn brother, all right?” He raises his eyebrows at her before he heads for the stairs.

            “Hey,” Ian says when he walks into the kitchen, and smiles at him. “You’re up early.”

            “Couldn’t sleep,” Mickey replies, checking out what Ian’s cooking up for breakfast. Eggs. “I like mine scrambled.”

            “I know,” Ian smiles, and Mickey can’t help but smirk back. The kitchen is empty but they don’t know how to touch each other in morning light, so they keep their hands to themselves. “Hey, since you’re up so early, does that mean you wanna go for a run with me?”

            “Not a fucking chance.”

            Ian laughs. “Coffee?”

            “Yeah,” Mickey says, grabbing a mug from the drying rack on the counter and flipping it over so that Ian can pour black coffee into it. He takes a sip and frowns at the bitterness, but Ian’s humming while he scrambles the eggs in the pan, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind if every morning was like this.

 

 

           

 


End file.
